


Soot and Secrets

by Jim_del_Carnival



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Class Issues, Developing Relationship, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 01:37:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14989928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jim_del_Carnival/pseuds/Jim_del_Carnival
Summary: Wilson always saw his future as glistening with glory. He was a physician, worshiped on the plague-ridden streets and the pride of his affluent family. When he first met the chimney sweep, he never expected that his glimmering future would be smudged by those gentle sooty hands. ჯ Novella.





	Soot and Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> I've always liked the Victorian setting. This is less of the Gnaw dimension, and more of the real-life Victorian England, where the characters have always been rather than being transported to. (I'm mingling in some elements and references to the Gnaw however.) I also like the idea of Wilson being a snotty doctor who learns respect and love and what-have-you from somebody who he thinks is beneath him. It's nice character development and conflict. He thinks he's a great fellow and genuinely tries, but he's still insufferable and can learn a thing or two.
> 
> Expect about four chapters of this. The M-rating will become applicable and quite obviously so in the last chapter.

Loop, under, over.  Wilson squinted into the mirror and fumbled with his cravat, adjusting the abundant puffs of lace in a jaunty knot under his chin. His gloved hands flashed black against the white, twisting the linen in hasty jerks.  He'd tied the knot the same way every morning for the past twelve years and put no thought into the habitual titivation as he stewed in frustration like pork in brine.

“Where is that lazy little chimney sweep?” He tucked the bunches of lace into his coat and fastened the top button. The narrow-eyed glare of his reflection cut through the glass. “It’s half-past eight-o’-clock already. For all I know he could be stone cold with plague since last Tuesday.”

That was all quite well, he supposed. A dead chimney sweep was even less cause for mourning than a dead parish constable.  The world would find itself deficient in the constable department if Wilson waited any longer. He’d promised the constable’s fat little wife that he’d return in the morning with a satchel of tonics.  Oils and analeptics guaranteed more or less to shrink onion-sized buboes and soften the scales of withered flesh.

If the chimney sweep lingered, the constable could be dead by the evening. Wilson would more miss the weight of two medallions’ wages in his money purse than he would the constable. They tended to be a dime a dozen to most, but to a physician they ran fair prices of at least one sapphire medallion a head. Times of plague weren't all bad.

A rap at the door jarred Wilson from thoughts of glistening coins jangling in his pocket. Giving his cravat a decided tug, he shouted down the corridor.

“Business?”

Silence.

Wilson cupped his hand around his mouth to project his shout through the hall like an arrow. “State your business!”

The silence stretched, then exploded into more vigorous knocking. Wilson gritted his teeth, swiped his medlar-wood cane from its rack, and stomped down the hall. He swung open the door with such force it struck the wall and shuddered back. The hot air from outside rolled in like boiling water.

Before Wilson could react, he found himself staring at a fist. A very large fist regardless of how it engulfed his field of vision.  A fist that was a mere, oh—Wilson’s thoughts tumbled lazy as a basketful of kittens—three-quarters inch away from his nose. Give or a take a millimeter, but science demands accuracy.

Wilson considered that there must have been a person who owned the fist.  Perhaps  a person who had expected to knock on the mahogany door instead of on the cartilage of an aristocrat’s upturned nose.

Wilson blinked when his eyes focused. It was a very _dirty_ fist.

Behind it was a man in a tattered vest and kerchief. The kerchief may at one time had been mustard yellow, but was now gray and blotched with soot and tar. In fact, the entire fellow was. Wilson’s nose itched from the mere sight. He held his breath to avoid inhaling the dust that sloughed off the man with every move.

“So you’re the tardy chimney sweep?” Wilson cracked the end of his cane against the floor to turn the question into a statement that dared an answer. “I’ve waited half past the hour. Your service isn’t exactly commendable, you know.”

Unperturbed, the sweep offered a smile that was white as moonlight against his ash-blackened cheeks. Wilson squinted. All at once he was uncomfortable. He drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and patted his nose with an awkward _ha-hurmph_ of a cough.

“Well, if you find that you can manage, please make quick work. I have my own business that I can’t tend until you leave.”

The sweep almost nodded, then caught himself. He tilted his head and pursed his lips in thought.  His eyes traced the ceiling, all the way to the chandelier that blossomed from the center and dripped crystals like dew.

“I beg your pardon in advance,” Wilson said, “but I’m not leaving you alone in this house.  Why, there’s polished silver in the china cabinet and mother’s old set of pearls upstairs and I’ve two gold pocket-watches in the chiffonier and—” 

Wilson broke off when realization dropped like a blacksmith’s anvil on his head. “I lied about all that. There’s nothing here of interest nor value to a common thief. Please disregard the chandelier and silk curtains.”

To Wilson’s chagrin, the sweep laughed. That splitting white smile glinted again, and the sweep lowered his head as if to hide it. The laugh made not a sound, but his wide shoulders shook with the force of it. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth in brief apology.

Somehow Wilson knew that wasn’t a laugh of condescension.  No spite emanated from this ragged man, who seemed as comfortable at Higgsbury Estate as he did in the rookery. The sweep laughed as though he and Wilson had kept favorable company for a lifetime.  He made no sign that he in his dirt-caked rags, worn shoes and holey kerchief was at all intimidated by pomp and prestige.

Wilson regarded him with suspicion. “Who are you?” The moment he spoke, he halted. Why did he ask such a ridiculous question? The man was nobody. He was  just  a chimney sweep.

The sweep pointed to himself, jabbing a thumb against his chest. The grin widened.  As though he were preparing to show Wilson the map to Treasure Island, he tugged from his pocket a smudged, tattered sheet of paper. Wilson glanced at the sweep’s face. Upon finding nothing but sincerity, he adjusted his monocle and unfolded the paper.

“WESTON OF OXFORDSHIRE, ACKNOWLEDGED AS OF THE EIGHTEENTH OF JUNE, 18—, TO HAVE COMPLETED APPRENTICESHIP AND MAY SERVE AS JOURNEYMAN SWEEP UNDER ASHTON AND CO., SWEEPING SERVICE.”

Wilson scanned the rest of the old paper all the way down to the smeared signature at the bottom. He handed it back.

“Weston. Licensed as a journeyman. Wes, then?”

Wes nodded.

“Wes. You may be unaware, but it’s proper to give spoken answers.”

As if he had expected this rebuke, Wes put his fingers to his throat. He tapped and shook his head.

“I . . . oh.” Wilson’s cheeks ached under a blaze of red. “You, err, don’t speak?”

Another nod.

Wilson cleared his throat. “I see. I’ll pay your silence little mind in that case. Forgive me, but one mustn’t blame me for assuming you would be  poorly  bred.”

Wes’s smile cranked up into something resembling a smirk, if such a thing could exist outside aristocracy. It ghosted away before Wilson could remark.

“So . . . yes! Business. In we go. Mind you don’t track your filth on the carpet. Persian, by the way. Well over a hundred years old, if you could believe that. It  was given  to my great-grandfather when he traveled overseas to—oh, Wes, take long strides if you can. I’d be grateful.” Wilson tapped his cane over the floor in a fidgety rhythm as they walked down the hall. “The first fireplace is this way.”

Wilson led Wes to the expansive bedroom that was like a cocoon of silk and burgundy.  He cast furtive backwards glances over his shoulder to watch Wes’s reaction, waiting in anticipation for the expected gasp of surprise and fascination. But in the gentle orange light of the globe lanterns, Wes’s expression stayed the same. That mask-like smile never slipped. Not so much as an eyelash twitched in awe of Wilson’s regal estate.

_Hmm. Hmm. This man’s sight must be as absent as his voice_ _._ Wilson stiffened his shoulders, hefting up his sinking pride.

“You take care of the matter, err, sweeping. And whatever else you do up in there.” Wilson seated himself on the overstuffed chaise longue delicate as a hen on a nest.

Wes hooked his fingers beneath his belt and surveyed the fireplace. The way he stood caught Wilson by surprise. His posture was so straight that a iron pole fitted through his spine would have held up him no straighter. His heels were light on the carpet.  With his shoulders back and chest pushed forward, he could have more been David steeling himself before Goliath than a sweep before a fireplace.  Wes’s commanding presence exuded a strange sort of confidence that made Wilson at the same time comfortable and nervous.

Wilson was never the awkward party in a conversation. He claimed his rightful place as an important ingredient in the upper crust. When workmen entered Wilson’s estate, they slunk about. They were fearful to skim a finger across any surface if not granted permission. Wary to look Wilson in the eye. Hesitant to take a step and all the while agape with wonder at the sheer grandeur of Wilson’s home. Yet Wes’s confidence was almost tangible.  Despite looking as though he’d tumbled out of a workhouse gutter, he behaved as though he’d dined with nobility since birth.

There was something unsettling about Weston the chimney sweep of Oxfordshire.

Wilson cleared his throat. With his back to Wilson, Wes tilted his head in acknowledgment.

“I suppose you’re pleased with the architecture,” Wilson said.  “This estate is older than the Persian carpet, and you’ll find the flues are much wider than those of the average building. The original owners were quite sympathetic to those such as yourself.  They even made considerations in constructing wider flues for ease of access so sweeps would have far less hassle. My family, as you see,  is known  for philanthropy. Despite the inevitable gap between classes, we’re sensitive to your sort.”

Wes’s shoulders quaked a couple of times. Had Wilson known better, he would have interpreted it as a laugh. Instead he dismissed it as an overcoming of emotion.  Perhaps  a sharp intake of breath from awe.

“Indeed.” Wilson whisked a wrinkle from his trousers. “I’m sure you’ve heard the name many times. ‘Higgsbury’ is as well known in households as Rothmans’ cigarettes. We’re well known for lifting up the lower class that’s such an important step on the staircase of society. It was only thanks to my dear father’s donations that the private schools could—I do beg your pardon!”

Wes turned to look at Wilson, who had blanched to the color of a boiled turnip. Wilson pointed with a quivering hand.

“What in God’s name are you doing?”

Wes’s fingers froze on the third button of his vest. For the first time, his smile faltered, flattening into a thick line marked with confusion.  After a moment’s pause, he continued unfastening the buttons and dropped the tattered corduroy vest. It fell in a stiff, rumpled heap around his ankles.

Wilson stared in ashen horror until Wes broke into another silent shaking laugh. Wilson followed the direction of his hand when Wes pointed to the fireplace. He made a side-to-side swiping motion.

“I—I see,” Wilson said, struggling to regain his composure. He fumbled with his cravat, smoothing it down over and over. “No unnecessary bulk of clothing needed in a warm tight space, of course. If you’ll excuse me, I’m not used to strangers undressing before me. But then again, I suppose one can’t expect you to be aware of societal norms. I, uh . . . ahem.” He averted his gaze.

Wes loosened the knot of the stained yellow kerchief that sagged around his neck and looped it around his head to hold back his mess of frazzled hair. Wilson glanced back. Wes’s bare arms were dirty and mottled with bruises, but lined with faint sketches of muscle. As he raised his arms to tie the kerchief about his head, his shirt tightened across his chest. Wrinkles of stained cloth stretched and pulled and defined.  He knotted the kerchief with a tug, swiped stray hairs away from his brow, and slid from his belt loop a rough steel brush.

Wilson watched in fascination. Hitching up his rolled sleeves, Wes ducked into the fireplace. He felt about, then hoisted himself into the flue with an ‘oof’ that echoed upwards. Soot rained down as his heels scraped the walls inside, sprinkling down like a gray blizzard.

Wilson found himself entranced by the falling soot. Thoughts churned through his head, bumping and mixing and tumbling. He sat like a moss-covered rock and didn’t pick a thought to ponder. The clutter swirled through his mind like the flakes of soot.  He listened to the scratching of Wes’s brush against the chimney walls and the banging of his heels and elbows as he climbed.

Somehow, even the sound of Wes was strong and confident.  Though hidden in the tunnel of the flue and not aware of the impression he made on Wilson, he worked at his own steady pace. Habit had honed every movement. Any onlooker could observe that Wes had done this countless times before. Yet Wilson caught his breath in admiration of the sheer pride and power in Wes’s motions. Every thud of his heel rang through the entrails of the estate like a mallet against a gong.  Every scrape of his brush bristles over caked coal growled down the chimney and was testament in itself of the strength in the arm that wielded the brush.

Wilson’s eyes wandered as he listened.  He followed patterns in the carpet until interrupted by the rumpled corduroy vest that still lay in a pile on the floor. The vest was out of place. A single spot of filth marring the pristine perfection of the room. Would it leave a gray blotch on the white fleur-de-lis in the carpet? He stared at it a long time.

Slow as a sleepy cat, he strayed his hand over the gold buttons parading down the front of his coat. He moved  lazily, without thinking, fondling the buttons.

When Wes worked his way back down the flue, banging and huffing, Wilson jolted to life. He unfastened the buttons, shrugged out of his coat, and folded it over the pillow of the chaise longue. An odd sense of discomfort gripped him.  He locked his arms against his sides and pressed his knees together so hard that bone ground against bone. Had he ever been less than  fully  dressed when among company? His linen shirt was too thin. The cravat weighed too bulky and scratchy on his throat, like a hibiscus bush bound to his neck. He held his breath. Wes's feet in clunky boots emerged from the flue. A billowing mushroom of soot rolled free like foam from a champagne bottle.

Wes dropped to his heels in the pile of soot, sending another puff of smog swirling.  Squatting in the fireplace, he spat on the back of his hand and dragged it over his face to wipe away the hot black flakes that had crusted around his eyes and clumped his lashes. He blinked a few times, shook his head, and flashed that familiar grin at Wilson.  Sweat rolled down his face in marble-sized drops, leaving tracks through the layer of black dust. His drenched shirt  was glued  to his body like papier-mâché. His chest heaved for a breath of cool air, but he made not a sound.

How a man could look as though he’d floundered from a mudhole and still move with that unmistakable swagger that made every motion appear rehearsed with graceful dignity?  Yet Wilson himself in starched silk and polished boots was as stiff and awkward and gangly as a scarecrow in comparison. It wasn’t until Wes cocked his head like an inquisitive bird that Wilson realized he was staring, drifting away with his thoughts.

“I, ahem, finished here?” Wilson dug his finger under his cravat to loosen it and waved his other hand in dismissal. “I would have preferred less soot on my furniture, but I trust you’ll be more careful in the next room. There’s two more fireplaces—one in the back parlor, one in the dining area. Come along.”

Wes whisked out the next chimneys even more  quickly  than he had the first.  By the time he returned the brush to its hook on his belt, he  was coated  in layers of soot and as damp as a paper bag left on the street during a muggy rain.  He leaned against the wall and plowed his fingers through his wet hair, piling the frowsy strands high on his head to push them beneath the kerchief. Wilson busied himself with picking through his coin purse to avoid looking at Wes. He knew that, if their eyes met, Wes could sense his fear in the same way a hydrophobic dog could.

“How much do you charge?” Wilson said. He swallowed. Focusing on keeping his voice deep he pressed: “Five pennies? Robbery,  really.” Something spurned him.  He picked deeper into his purse like a persistent miner, rattling change and crumpling banknotes. At last he withdrew a heavy red coin.

“Would, say, a mark suffice?”

For the first time, Wes's eyes widened. They were round as the blue floral tea saucers in the china cabinet.

A surge of pride filled Wilson like a tidal wave. It rinsed hot from his heels to his head and prickled the hair on his arms. Wes glanced from side to side as if expecting Wilson to turn the sum over to someone behind him. Wilson waved the coin with a back-and-forth flip of his wrist.

“Is this still not enough? There’s no need to haggle.” Directed by adrenaline, Wilson clawed through the purse with an unsteady hand. His pulse pounded in his temples.  If Wes expressed amazement at Wilson’s tossing handfuls of coins into the privy to join the rats and roaches, Wilson would have done so.

Triumphantly  he held up another red mark. Light caught its edge in a little star. “A-ha! Two marks. I hope that’s acceptable, Mister Wes.”

Wilson reveled in Wes’s shock like a cat in a bowl of warm cream. Of course.  Value of things such as fine linen and chandeliers and vast paintings did less to impress Wes than the money itself.  Personally, Wilson thought his estate was far more grandiose, but whatever it took to make Wes stare in wonder was agreeable.

Wes extended his hand, flattening his dirty palm.  This time, Wilson smiled a wide white smile that would have made a territorial panther crouch and hiss. He pressed the two heavy coins into Wes’s palm and let his gloved fingers trail off Wes’s hand.

“I would  advise  against growing expectant of these gestures in your line of work,” he said. He snapped the coin purse shut and thrust it into his pocket. “I’ll be certain to recommend your services, hm?”

Wes’s lips cranked up into the grin that was as lazy and warm as lard melting in the bottom of a pot.  As  abruptly  as he had  been taken  aback by Wilson’s gift, he recovered, settling once more into his easy, self-assured manner.

Wilson wondered if he had been too hasty in relishing the victory of rousing admiration.  He was stricken by the temptation to fish out another mark  just  to see the spark brighten Wes’s eyes like the northern lights. Before he could relent, Wes put his fist to his chest and squeezed the coins as though they’d grant three wishes.

An odd, heavy sensation pressed down Wilson’s heart as Wes left. Wes, a mess of ash and dirt clutching those shiny coins as if his life was at stake were they to fall from his hand.  Wilson made a show of examining some distant speck on the wall to hide how he watched Wes saunter away with his chin tilted up to flaunt that smile to the world.

Wilson remained bolstered in place a few more suffocating seconds, then scrambled for the window. He pushed back the rolls of curtains to peer outside and craned his neck to see. Even had he not known who to look for, he would have noticed that chimney sweep. His straight back, his long strides, the glow of his face that no amount of dirt could hide.  Among hundreds of milling people, ragged and grand, withered and young, some stooped, some skipping, Wes radiated something. Something. Something . . .

Wilson lingered at the window, dazed in thought. He sank against the wall. Somehow, a sense of defeat crept hard and cold into his chest. Defeat, unease, and confusion.

There was definitely something odd about Wes the chimney sweep.


End file.
